


Solving Zeno's Paradox

by hurlinkandwit



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Awkward Sherlock Holmes, Bisexual John Watson, Childhood Trauma, Coming Out, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Dysfunctional Family, Everyone Needs A Hug, Falling In Love, Family, Family Issues, Gay Sherlock Holmes, Happy Ending, Healing, Holmes Brothers' Childhood, Idiots in Love, Inspired by Music, LGBTQ Themes, Love, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Murder-Suicide, Mutual Pining, Mycroft writes poetry, Romance, Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Social Anxiety, Strangers to Lovers, inspired by Amélie, kind of, not described graphically
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:14:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29875491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurlinkandwit/pseuds/hurlinkandwit
Summary: Zeno's paradox: To reach a point, one must always reach a halfway point, and from there, the next halfway point. There will always be another halfway point.Therefore, two objects (or two people) can never touch.And how does one solve Zeno's paradox?They don't.They remain completely alone forever, never touching.Sherlock Holmes accepts this. At least, he thinks he does.That is until John Watson enters his life.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	Solving Zeno's Paradox

Sherlock peers through his spyglass. He is standing among the gravestones, imagining that he’s surrounded by a dome of glass, snowflakes drifting through the air to rest upon his black pirate hat and cover Musgrave Hall in white. He sticks his tongue out to catch the snow, but he tastes death on the air instead. The skeletons below his feet long to crawl from out of their graves—to dance in the snow before the evening fades and the goldfinches chirp the dawn into existence.

So, they do. They come out to dance.

The skeletons let him join in, and they all dance away to the sea, the stars guiding them until they come across a mighty ship with sails glowing with moonbeams. They appoint him as their captain, and, aided by a crew of the dead, Sherlock sails away.

“Daydreaming again?”

Sherlock hears the question but doesn’t lower his spyglass. He stares with determination at the horizon, the brass contraption chilling his fingers.

“Sherlock!”

The waves are turbulent, spraying seawater onto his skin. His crew calls to him, their bones clattering with every syllable. He turns at the sound of their pleas and sets his gaze upon an approaching raspberry-colored serpent, its scales glittering like gems from a treasure chest. It roars louder than the crashing waves.

"Sherlock!"

“Oh no, a giant sea monster!”

Sherlock lowers the spyglass, smirking. He is no longer at sea but standing among the gravestones with the sun shining down on him and his brother, Mycroft, who does not look amused. Mycroft’s hands clench into annoyed fists.

“If you’re finished visiting your mind palace,” Mycroft says, emphasizing the last two words with mockery, “dad wants to talk to us.”

Sherlock snickers.

“Sorry? I don’t speak sea monster.”

Mycroft raises his eyebrows.

“I’ll tear up the crossword if you don’t come in now.”

“I already finished this morning's,” Sherlock retorts, sticking his tongue out.

Mycroft glares and plucks the pirate hat off his brother's head.

“Then I’ll tear up tomorrow’s.”

"Give it back! That's mine!"

Sherlock aims a kick at Mycroft’s shin. He misses, hitting his toes against a gravestone.

“Ow!” He feels Mycroft grab his arm in a tight grip. “Ow! Mycroft!”

“Come on,” Mycroft says in a bored tone.

“No!” Sherlock yells. “I don’t want to!”

“Dad said.”

Sherlock wrenches his arm away, freeing himself.

“No!”

Mycroft sighs.

“It will only take a few minutes. And Eurus is asleep right now.”

Sherlock glares at Mycroft, trying to detect any signs of a lie. Nothing is amiss. Sherlock stuffs his spyglass into his pocket and runs toward the house, leaving his brother behind.

~

Mr. Holmes has dark hair, a large nose, and a fixed mouth that never smiles.

Sherlock hesitates in the entrance to the sitting room, but Mycroft was right. Their father is alone, reading in an armchair with one leg crossed over the other, so Sherlock enters and collapses onto the worn rug.

He waits.

Mr. Holmes turns a page and doesn’t look up.

Neither of them speaks.

The clock over the fireplace ticks as Mr. Holmes takes a sip from a chipped cup emblazoned with the words ‘World’s Best Dad’. 

Sherlock pulls out the spyglass; rubs at fingerprints with his shirt before it slips from his hands and tumbles to the rug. Mr. Holmes looks up at the sound of the muffled tinkling.

“What are you doing with that spyglass?”

Sherlock picks it up.

“Cleaning it.”

Mr. Holmes sniffs and closes his book.

“I told you not to play with that. It was your grandfather’s.”

“Then why doesn’t he keep it at his house?”

“Because he gave it to me.”

Sherlock frowns.

“Where did he get it? Did he used to be a pirate?”

Mr. Holmes sighs and takes another sip of tea.

“No. He bought it somewhere.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know, Sherlock,” Mr. Holmes responds. “I don’t want you playing with it. Bring it here. And take off that hat.”

Sherlock knows he can’t beg his way out of the demand. He gives it to his father; watches him pocket it. Later, his dad will place it on the topmost shelf of the bookshelf in the corner of the sitting room. Dejected, Sherlock takes off the pirate hat. The ceiling groans with footsteps. His heart lurches.

“That must be your mum coming to join us. Where’s Mycroft?”

They hear the front door open. Mycroft walks into the sitting room. He is shortly followed by Mrs. Holmes, a tall, skinny woman with light brown hair, hooded eyes, and a nervous twitch. Mycroft and Mrs. Holmes sit on the sofa.

The clock ticks.

The upstairs is silent.

“Now, boys,” Mr. Holmes shifts in the armchair, “your mother and I have been discussing what we’re going to do with you when the summer holidays are over.”

Sherlock glances at Mycroft, whose eyes are focused on their father. Mr. Holmes clears his throat.

“We have decided to homeschool both of you.”

Sherlock looks at his mother, whose eye twitches. Her hands are clasped together as if in prayer.

“Along with Eurus?” Mycroft asks, his voice flat.

Mr. Holmes glances at Mrs. Holmes. She does not meet his gaze.

“Not all the time. Her schedule will be a bit different than yours,” he says.

Sherlock tilts his head, eyes wide and confused.

“Is mummy going to teach us?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Holmes says, her tone strange.

“Why?” Sherlock asks.

He’s never liked school, but he doesn’t enjoy being at home much either.

“Eurus needs a bit more attention at the moment,” Mr. Holmes hesitates, “and we think that you boys would benefit more by learning at home. Your mother will teach more advanced topics than your teachers, especially maths. And of course, you will still be able to visit your friends, so there won’t be much of a difference, really.”

Sherlock frowns.

“I don’t have any friends.”

Mycroft laughs, an act that goes unacknowledged by their parents.

“Of course you’ve got friends, Sherlock,” Mr. Holmes sighs.

“No, I haven’t.”

The ceiling shakes with stomping. Mrs. Holmes jumps faster than a grasshopper and darts toward the door. They hear her footsteps going up the stairs. Mr. Holmes clears his throat.

“Well, we’ll talk more about it at dinner. I want to show you two something.”

This is enough to drag Sherlock’s attention away from whatever is happening upstairs. They follow Mr. Holmes out into the hallway.

“What is it?” Mycroft asks.

“A birthday present for your mum."

The boys follow their father to the front entrance. Sherlock thinks they’re going to go outside, but instead, Mr. Holmes opens the cupboard where they store their coats. He pushes some of them aside, revealing a large garden gnome hidden deep within. The gnome looks brand new with its shiny black shoes and a red hat. It also has a white beard, a green shirt, and blue trousers.

“That’s mummy’s present?” Sherlock asks.

“Yes. Do you think she’ll like it?” Mr. Holmes responds.

Sherlock doesn’t respond. Mrs. Holmes doesn’t enjoy decorating or gardening, so he isn’t sure what use she’ll have for it. He thinks his mother would appreciate a new tea kettle instead.

“What do you think, Mycroft?”

“I like it.”

Sherlock peers at his brother and is unsurprised to see him smirking. Their father overlooks this act and continues to stare at the garden gnome as if he is willing it not to disappoint.

“Yes, I think it will do quite nicely. Don’t tell your mother.” He closes the cupboard door. “I think I’ll check on her and Eurus.”

The boys watch him go. Mycroft snorts.

“What?” Sherlock asks.

“It’s rubbish.”

“The present?”

“He bought it from a second-hand shop and repainted it.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows wrinkle.

“It looks brand new to me.”

This earns another snort as Mycroft opens the front door.

“That’s because you never notice anything, Sherlock.”

The door closes behind him. Sherlock sinks to the floor and rests his chin in his hands, preoccupied gaze resting on the umbrella stand.

~

The next morning smells of rain as Sherlock eats his porridge. He swirls his spoon around in the mixture, chewing with distaste. It’s cold and slimy on his tongue, an intrusion to his ungrateful taste buds. His mother sits next to him, reading the newspaper and eating a piece of plain toast.

“Mummy, I don’t like porridge.”

She doesn’t look up from what she’s reading.

“Just eat it. It’s good for you.”

“If it’s good for me, then why does it taste bad?” Sherlock sighs. “Can I put some more sugar in it?”

“No.”

The sound of the whistling kettle follows her annoyed tone. The chair creaks as she gets up to pour herself a cup.

“Morning,” Mr. Holmes says as he walks into the dining room and sits at the table. He’s in his dressing-gown, his hair swept into a poofy swirl.

“Love, would you mind popping a piece of toast in for me?”

“Yes, dear,” Mrs. Holmes responds stiffly, face twitching.

Sherlock’s mother takes her time in the kitchen, sipping from her cup while she looks out the window behind the sink. Sherlock glances at his father and sees that he is also observing Mrs. Holmes.

“Dad?”

“Yes?”

Sherlock puts his spoon down.

“Could I play with—I mean use—the spyglass today?”

Mr. Holmes sighs and rubs at his eyes.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I have already explained why.”

“But—”

“No.”

Mr. Holmes gets up to grab a cup of tea. Mrs. Holmes, her posture stiff and unwelcoming, does not interact with her husband in any way. Sherlock hears his father whisper something. She gives no response. Mr. Holmes joins his son at the table again, eyebrows furrowed, and drinks from his ‘World’s Best Dad’ cup. His eyes widen over the rim, locked on someone or something in the hallway leading to the front door, and his chair scoots back with a loud screech as he dashes away from the table.

“Eurus! Come back here!”

Sherlock’s heart begins to race as Eurus’ voice echoes from the entryway.

“I want to go outside.”

“No! You know the rules. Besides, it’s raini—”

“I want to go outside! I’ll take a brolly! I want to go! Let me go!”

Mrs. Holmes hurries after Mr. Holmes. Sherlock hears his mother’s voice next.

“Eurus, sweet, come have breakfast. We can go for a walk later.”

Eurus stomps.

“I. DON’T. WANT. TO.”

“NOW!” Mr. Holmes roars.

It’s quiet after that, and then there are more angry footsteps. Eurus walks into the dining room wearing rain boots, her hands grasped tightly by her mother and father. A tear slides down her face, but she is smiling.

She is smiling at Sherlock.

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes guide her to a chair at the table—the one across from her brother—and she sits for a minute, humming and scratching at the tabletop with short fingernails. Sherlock glances at his parents in the kitchen. Mrs. Holmes is leaning against the counter, shaking, her face in her hands. Sherlock stares at her, unsure what to do. Something collides with his leg, sending pain down his calf.

“Ow!”

Eurus giggles and kicks him again. Sherlock pushes away from the table and hurries out of the room. Quick, clomping sounds follow him to the sitting room where the spyglass rests on top of the mahogany bookshelf. He looks over his shoulder to see Eurus in the doorway.

“I want to play pirates, too,” she states, but Sherlock doesn’t respond. He stands on his tiptoes; reaches up, hearing shouting in the hallway, but all he cares for is the copper spyglass. It will take him away from here, away from his disturbed sister and confusing parents, and if he has to loot it, so be it. That’s what pirates do.

Sherlock maneuvers the spyglass with his fingertips, inching it toward the edge. It ends up in his hand, and he turns around only to find Eurus clawing at him.

“I WANT IT.”

Sherlock reels back, clutching the contraption with both hands.

“Stop!” he yells.

“Sherlock! Eurus!”

It registers in Sherlock’s mind that his father is standing in the doorway, face redder than tomatoes. Eurus lunges at her brother while he is caught off guard, and they land on the floor, tussling and pulling. Eurus stomps on his foot and snatches the spyglass.

"Give it back!" Sherlock screams, vaguely hearing his dad's voice. A light glints in Eurus's eyes as she stands up and heaves the spyglass. Glass scatters across the floor, looking like shattered icicle pieces just snapped from the edge of a roof.

Sherlock stares at the fragments, chest heaving with rage and fear.

"Oops," Eurus says, a grin haunting her face.

Sherlock turns to see his father angrier than he’s ever seen him before. He braces himself for the shouting while Eurus giggles. How can she be incapable of dread in a moment like this?

“Both of you go to your rooms. Now. Watch out for the glass.”

Sherlock hesitates, part of him longing to save the spyglass, or at least, what’s left of it. He reaches toward it only to be barked at by Mr. Holmes.

“No! You’ll hurt yourself. Get out of here. Please.”

Sherlock doesn’t look at Eurus or Mr. Holmes. He bolts out, his cheeks and eyes hot with impending tears.


End file.
